


What He Never Writes

by deliciouspineapple



Series: Torture Fic [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Gore, Other, Psychological Torture, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciouspineapple/pseuds/deliciouspineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke never joins the expedition to the Deep Roads, he never even makes it to Kirkwall.  Instead, Varric scrounges up the last of the coin for the Deep Roads expedition on his own.</p><p>The Tethras Expedition makes it to the Ancient Thaig where Varric finds the Red Lyirum Idol.  Thinking it worth buckets and buckets of gold he takes it and gives it to his brother.  As they trek back through the Deep Roads, however, Bartrand begins acting strangely.  When they breach the surface to head back to Kirkwall it's the beginning of a nightmare for Varric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

 “Bartrand, Bartrand _listen to me_ ,” Varric begged.

“Not the right stuff,” frowned Bartrand, his icy blue eyes narrowed.

“Bart _RAND_!” Varric screamed as the knife went into his side, just a few centimeters above the last cut. “PLEASE STOP!”

“She needs the blood,” Bartrand said for the umpteenth time.

 _She_ was an idol made of red lyrium, all dolled up in a grotesque altar Bartrand had made when they breached the surface after their expedition into the Deep Roads. The idol was framed in branches and leaves, sitting on a bed of body parts and blood and bone bits, neatly accented with the bits of leather and clothes Bartrand had saved from the “firsts.” No one had expected Bartrand to snap like he did. Maybe Varric should have. That prank from when Varric he found he lyrium idol should have been a clue. Varric was just too high on the fumes of success to realize what was happening to his brother.

Varric whimpered softly as the short knife was withdrawn a bit from his side and Bartrand brought a bowl under it. A bit of the dwarf's blood dripped into the crimson-stained clay pottery. This had been going on for _days_ now. Bartrand stabbing or cutting Varric, taking some of the blood, offering it to his Idol, chattering at the damn thing, and then minutes later or maybe hours coming back to Varric to repeat the process.

“This is good. This is the right stuff,” smiled Bartrand.

“I'm so glad,” his brother gritted, straining against the ropes.

It was no use to keep straining against them. He hadn't escaped them yesterday or the day before, why would today be any different? Somehow Bartrand had learned how to restrain Varric properly, keeping his arms tied up and away from each other by the wrists, leaving him in an awkward X-stance with his back to a painfully uncomfortable tree.

“Is she happy yet?” Varric panted, relaxing against his tree.

“For now,” Bartrand replied with child-like glee as he poured Varric's blood over the idol's base.

 _Oh good. For_ _ **now**_.

As the sharp pain in his side began to dull Varric wished they had never gone into the Deep Roads.

 

*

 

“Bartrand, look at this!” Varric called excitedly.

Laying on an altar in the middle of the Deep Roads was what their entire venture had been made for. Something with _real_ value, something they could actually sell. Not just an ancient thaig with impressive red lyrium veins and architecture that even the Shapers had forgot, but real, honest to the Maker, _treasure_. The lyrium idol was carved from the red veins that surrounded them, creating an eerie and dangerous crimson light around it. Even an idiot with no sense for the markets could find value in a piece like _this_. Varric could make a fortune for himself and his brother if he found just the right buyer.

“It's an idol, made of pure lyrium I think!” Varric continued as he saw his older brother slide into the doorway to the room.

A soft, almost mockingly impressed whistle came from Bartrand as he murmured something Varric couldn't hear. Whatever he said didn't matter. If he was doubting Varric then he was a bigger idiot than the younger dwarf thought. Varric always came through. Sure it took him a while to drum up the extra 50 sovereigns they needed for this particular venture, but he had done it. All it took was some careful investing and the right leads.

Holding his hand above the idol Varric smirked. This would be their ticket to the high life in Kirkwall. Not that he really _wanted_ all that, but he did want his brother and mother to stop bitching about all that lost glory from “the good old days.” Varric hadn't been around for those, and his family's obsession with the past had amounted to foolishness in his mind.

With a deft swipe of his hand he grabbed the idol and held it up. It emanated some sort of dangerous power that made the hair on his arms and chest stand on end. Yeah, this was going to make them _rich_. It would finally shut mother up. That, or she would just drink more and bitch, but it was going to be good somehow.

Bartrand inched closer into the room and Varric grinned. Lyrium wasn't too brittle a substance so he called out to his brother and tossed the idol. Never one to miss the chance to hold something incredibly expensive, Bartrand's icy eyes lit up and he caught the idol deftly. Varric wasn't the only Tethras son with fast hands.

“I bet it's worth a fortune!” Laughed Varric. “There must be more in here,” he realized as he started rounding the altar in the room.

Through the corner of his eye he could see his brother moving but Varric was too consumed with the idea of finding another idol, something even _more_ expensive,that he wasn't aware that Bartrand was leaving until the door began to shut.

“Bartrand? BARTRAND!”

Varric bolted for the door as it shut behind his brother. He crashed into the wall and pounded his fists.

“Bartrand the door! It shut behind you!” And it only opened one way.

“I _know_ ,” came a hiss from the older dwarf.

A silence followed Bartrand's words. Varric's heart pounded in his chest. This wasn't happening. His brother wouldn't do _this_ to him. This was something other dwarves did to their family members. The Tethras line had been kicked out of Orzammar but they wouldn't turn on each other!

“What, you're going to screw your own brother?!” Varric voice may have cracked.

Bartrand was quiet beyond the door. Panic surged in Varric's veins and he slammed on the door with all his might. The expertly engineered metal and stone refused to budge under his frantic hits.

“BARTRA—”

The door opened as Varric screamed, making him spill out into the open chasm at his brother's feet. Fear turned to rage as Varric scrambled to his feet, glaring at his older brother. Bartrand smirked back.

“What the fuck was that?” Hissed Varric.

“Just a little fun,” answered Bartrand.

Nodding his head back in the direction that they came Bartrand set off to either show off or hide their spoils. Varric scoffed and dusted off his coat.

“ _Hilarious_.”

 

*

 

Varric's head dully ached as he watched Bartrand flit about his meat, bones, and now shit ton of flies and maggot altar. The red lyrium idol glowed ominously from her throne, the red light coloring Bartrand like a demon, making his icy eyes look sick and ghostly. Bartrand wasn't eating, or at least Varric wasn't awake when his brother ate. With all the body parts around...

The merchant prince swallowed down the bile in his throat at that thought. Bartrand was crazy now but he wasn't...he _wouldn't_...

“Bartrand,” Varric prompted.

His brother swiveled his head around. His face held no emotion but his eyes were wide in that telling insane way. No one held their eyes open like that if they were right in the head. Varric shivered and tried to straighten, but his chest hurt too much. Too many cuts. Bartrand always needed to cut or stab a few times to find the “right stuff” for his lyrium idol.

“Are you going to write a story about this?” Bartrand asked.

He moved like a shriek, one of those monsters from the Deep Roads. Like he was made of sticks and twine, all spindly and willowy, the exact opposite of the proud dwarf he had been pre-expedition.

“I don't want to write any stories,” Varric whispered. “I want to go back to Kirkwall. Don't you? I mean it's not Orzammar but you never really complained. It's got all the ale and wenches you like. Let's go home. _Please_ , let's go home.”

His brother tilted his head in a funny way, like how birds did when they saw something interesting. Bartrand's face went slate under his beard. Maybe he wanted to? Maybe Varric's begging had finally worked?

Bartrand blinked and looked over to the idol. Varric's gut twisted into a knot as his brother inclined his head towards it. He just needed the idol to agree with him for a moment.

“No. She says we're not ready yet.”

The merchant prince bit his lip. He had never dealt with crazy before—not like this. Maybe people who were crazy rich, or crazy stupid, or crazy drunk, but never actually fucking crazy. He had to push. Maybe if he said all the right things Bartrand would snap out of this.

“Maybe you could put in a good word with her? See if she'll change her mind for us.”

Wrong words. Bartrand wheeled around in a flurry. Varric found himself holding his breath and tensing with terror as his brother charged the small space between them. A meaty hand of muscle and rage caught the side of Varric's face, forcing his head back and exposing his thick neck. Varric shut his eyes and waited for his jugular to be torn out.

“You can't make demands of _Her_ ,” hissed his brother.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Varric answered on cue.

“She is a _goddess._ She is meant to be worshiped!”

“I didn't mean any disrespect Bartrand I swear!” His voice cracked from fear.

In the past Varric never imagined he would sound like this. He never thought these words would tumble from his mouth either. Bartrand was an ass but he wasn't _this_. Varric thought his brother had limits. Apparently he was wrong.

A little terrified note left Varric's throat as his brother pushed his head back and forth, as if he were trying to find the right angle of his face, his neck, his lips, something to tell his psychosis that Varric was lying—or maybe that he was telling the truth. Bartrand didn't make it clear what he wanted from Varric anymore.

Varric gasped as Bartrand let his face go and inched back. His arms felt weak as he shivered and tried his best to hunch over in his spot. Icy eyes ran up and down Varric's bloodied body.

“She says you'll learn,” his brother informed him.

“Learn what?”

There was no answer, just a twist of Bartrand's lips that made Varric wish, if only for a split-second, that he had been left in that chamber in the Deep Roads.


	2. Two

“Do you hear that singing?”

Fourth time Bartrand had asked today. Varric rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Bartrand you're just homesick.”

“No I'm certain...”

“We'll be at the surface in no time. Garm said so,” he motioned to a thickly bearded dwarf who walked with one hand on the cavern wall, he said it helped him better read the stone.

“Remember it took us what amount to two weeks or so to get to the treasure chamber,” Garm also pointed out. “'It will take at least that long to make it back to the surface.”

And their caravan was slowed a bit now under a heavy burden of gold, lyrium, and some old dusty tomes that Varric had taken a particular shine to. He couldn't wait to take a look at them. They must hold some amazing stories from a time long before. Maybe one of these days one of his stories would last like those tomes. A man could dream, couldn't he?

Bartrand was quiet for about an hour before he began pulling at his hair or shoving a finger in his ear. Varric raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“Something in your ear?”

“That  _singing_ ,” growled Bartrand.

Varric was about to say he didn't hear anything before he stopped himself. Cocking his head to the side he tried very hard to hear whatever Bartrand was. It obviously had been bothering him and maybe Varric had just been too quick to write his brother off. But no matter how hard he focused or tried all he heard was the groan of the carts, the crunch of their boots and things beneath them, and Harris' continuous sniffling and coughing. Damned Ferelden was allergic to the dirt down here and had been unpleasant the entire venture.

“...I don't hear anything, Bartrand,” Varric answered finally.

His brother cursed and shoved Varric away. Varric sighed and rolled his eyes. Bartrand had probably just been looking for attention. He did so hate the way the hirelings asked Varric to tell them tales or start up a bawdy song during their trek. If maybe Bartrand worked on even  _pretending_  to be nice he might have someone to talk to. Making up drama wasn't going to endear him to anyone.

 

*

 

“So who's the hero?” Bartrand asked.

Varric blinked tiredly, “I beg your pardon?”

“In this story,” Bartrand motioned to the ground beneath him, “who's the hero and who's the villain?”

“I'm not writing this.”

Bartrand had noticed how Varric had began using the bark of the tree to his advantage. He had started while Bartrand was away, in the woods around them, doing something heinous to some innocent woodland creatures no doubt. Varric had found that if he twisted his wrists and rubbed the rope against the tree it would begin to fray. He had wagered if he kept up his rubbing he would be able to break at least one of the ties in a day or so. It just required him using the time Bartrand was otherwise occupied to his advantage, even if it rubbed his wrists raw and opened new wounds. Hell, he'd cut off his hands if it meant freedom at this point.

But Bartrand had woken in the middle of the night and Varric hadn't noticed. In the middle of Varric's diligent work his brother had stalked over and slammed something to the side of his head. The next time Varric woke his hands had been secured above him, leaving him almost hanging by his wrists since his toes were only partially touching the forest floor now. They had been secured too, tied to the trunk of the tree.

“Who  _would_  be, then?” Bartrand said.

Varric's head still hurt and he didn't want to talk. The entirety of The Hanged Man would be aghast to hear such a statement. The storyteller just didn't have it in him right now. He was running out of things in him to be perfectly honest.

“I don't want to tell this one,” Varric explained. “Not every story needs to be penned down. Me? I'd just be happy for it all to be over. Skip to the last sentence:  _the end_.”

Bartrand scoffed and slid over to his younger brother. Varric twitched and focused on the forest floor, the clear path of dirt around his boots, the plants he had repeatedly trampled because he had been stuck in this one place.

“Who would be the villain?” His brother demanded.

Varric frowned, there was no good answer here. He wasn't getting out of this one without having more of himself offered to the idol.

“The idol,” he growled, trying to glare at his insane brother.

Amber eyes couldn't be as cold as icy blue but damn Varric could try. Bartrand spat at the accusation.

“Does that make you the damn hero?” Bartrand hissed, his hand catching Varric's chin.

“No.”

Varric was never the hero.


	3. Three

“You notice Bartrand got weirder?” Harris commented in the middle of dinner.

“Bartrand isn't weird,” Varric contended as he chewed on whatever was in the stew, “he's just being an ass. That's normal for him.”

Garm was a great navigator in the Deep Roads, a great chef he was _not_. Varric was regretting even eating tonight. He should have just stuck with the mushrooms he had gathered earlier. Garm maintained they tasted like nothing but Varric would rather eat nothing than this shit.

“He has been acting...strangely,” Garm attempted to be politically correct about Harris' earlier statement.

Varric frowned and looked over at Bartrand's tent. He hadn't been pissed when they stopped earlier. One of the wagons lost a wheel and the hirelings were doing their best to replace it, but shit like repairing a wheel took more than a few minutes and the party ended up pitching up camp for the “night” here. Truth be told Varric didn't know if it was night, day, tea time, or drinking time down here. Underground time looked the same.

Bartrand had been holed up in his tent since before Garm started cooking. The stew hadn't really taken that long but it took a while to be dolled out to everyone, especially when Bodhan's boy Sandal kept trying to drink the whole damn pot. Then again, as Varric looked at his half-drained bowl, he did admit that it wouldn't have been such a big loss if Sandal had consumed everything.

“He's just getting cagey. He hasn't lived down below since childhood,” Varric explained. “I'm not loving it underground either, to be honest.”

Garm shook his head reprovingly. “ _Surfacers_.”

As if that were an insult. Even if he was a dwarf Varric had been born topside. Sunshine suited him just fine. And around now he was missing the sun and the sky something fierce. Garm had said it wouldn't be long now. A few more “days” and they would be topside, in the sunlight making their way back to Kirkwall and Varric's comfortable Hanged Man suite. Maker that was going to be fucking nice.

Sighing mostly to himself, Varric tossed his bowl of chewy, almost inedible stew aside and made his way to Bartrand's tent. Bartrand would be, of course, _fine_ ; it was just that the hirelings were just 3/4th jittery Fereldens and they would feel better if the brother they liked looked in on the brother they disliked and told them he was fine. It was a waste of Varric's bloody time but, then again, it wasn't like he was using that time to it's full potential at the present anyways.

“Bartrand, come on out for dinner, the boys are dying for another tale of the Glory of Orzammar!” Called Varric as he strode to his brother's tent. “It can't be tha...”

As he came up on the tent he shivered a little. There was an odd red light from within, as if someone had drawn a red curtain and put a lantern behind it. Varric didn't like the look of the shadows. Bianca was over by his things and it would look suspect if he went back for her...

“Bartrand?” Varric asked carefully as he pulled back the flap of the tent.

His brother was sitting on his bedmat, the red lyrium idol in his hands. It was glowing softly in his grasp, his icy blue eyes transfixed on it. Varric quickly shut the flap behind him and slid over to Bartrand.

“Bartrand.”

The dwarf in question blinked and looked up at Varric. It was difficult to read his expression. Bartrand didn't really show emotion and that beard of his also obscured a lot of his face. Varric felt something twist in him as Bartrand blinked slowly. The man looked as if he didn't quite believe his little brother was there with him.

“Varric,” he finally answered.

For some reason Varric took in a breath, not realizing that he had been holding it as he waited for his brother to acknowledge him. Bartrand was unfazed as Varric began breathing again.

“Um, yeah, hi,” Varric stumbled over his words for a moment. “Look the guys were thinking maybe you'd want into some cards tonight. I figured yeah because, hey, gets us a bit more coin. So,” he motioned for his brother to get up.

Another painfully slow blink that had Varric holding his breath. Bartrand looked down at the creepy idol in his hands.

“No,” Bartrand answered softly.

“No? Come now, brother, where's your entrepreneurial spirit? This is easy pickings. It's _Harris_ , for Andraste's sake! The man can hardly spell is own name!”

Varric tried a smile but it wasn't working properly. Especially not with how Bartrand's eyes looked so glazed and far away. He would swear Bartrand had smoked some of the Antivan stuff but they didn't have any of that with them, and Bartrand had never been a fan.

“I just want to sit and listen,” Bartrand answered a whole minute later.

“Listen? Listen to what?” Varric squinted at his brother.

Bartrand held up the idol and Varric's stomach sank.

“Her music.”

 

*

 

Varric bit his lip as Bartrand cut his arm. There was a moment's silence before the dwarf cursed and slid the knife over Varric's skin. Four cuts now and none of the blood was right. Varric had his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't look at the thing that once was Bartrand anymore. Sometimes he saw a monster. Sometimes he saw a brother. Sometimes, at the worst of times, he saw the horrifying mix of both the idol had turned him into.

“I don't understand!” Snapped Bartrand.

The storyteller did his best not to apologize. Speaking at this point only fed the rage. Varric couldn't remember how many days it had been since this started or how many days it had been since he realized talking didn't help, but he knew that if he said anything it would only set off his psychotic brother more.

“Usually your blood is so good for her!”

Varric wished his blood had never been good for her. Sometimes he envied Garm and Harris. The latter's body was left in the Deep Roads, the former's arms helped make the idol's altar. Every time he saw the fingers he imagined them tracing the stone walls, feeling their way through the Deep Roads, telling Garm where the path inclined and declined, leading them to treasure, safety, and doom.

Bartrand roared and slammed his fist into the side of Varric's face. The storyteller whimpered but didn't say anything back. He was not going to feed this. Not when some part of him wanted to live (even though another part of him wished he didn't.)

“She needs the blood, she needs it! You're the only one left and yours is her favorite!” Bartrand lectured.

“Maybe she needs a new favorite.”

Andraste's fucking flaming tits why did he even say anything? Bartrand roared and grabbed Varric's hair, pulling his head forward and trying to make him look into his dead blue eyes.

“I've cut you everywhere and she's still unhappy!”

He practically had. There were cuts on Varric's chest, his arms, his legs, his cheek, hell Bartrand even stabbed his right foot in an attempt to appease the idol. None of the blood in any of those spots had made her happy. What would happen if she stayed mad? Varric had to wonder if she would stop her song and return Bartrand to normal.

No.

Bartrand would never be normal after this. Varric wouldn't be either. Could they still be brothers even?

“I keep getting the wrong blood! I need the blood that is more _you_!” Bartrand continued.

Now he was biting his nails, icy bloodshot eyes darting about Varric over and over. How could Varric have blood that wasn't his? The only blood he had ever had was his own. Blood in his legs or in his arms was the same blood!

“I don't know. Maybe let me go,” Varric suggested.

“SHUT UP!” Snapped Bartrand.

 _Worth the shot, at least._ Even though it amounted to nothing.

“I need some, I need some. _She needs some_ ,” Bartrand muttered around his fingers. “But I've cut everywhere! Legs, feet, chest, arms, and—” suddenly his eyes went wide and they shot up Varric's body.

A cold shiver gripped Varric's body as Bartrand gasped like that. The insane dwarf smiled as he slid a hand up Varric's arm. To keep from crying out or whimpering the merchant prince bit into his lip hard, squeezing his eyes shut so tight that he started to see colors against the lids of his eyes.

“Your _hands_ ,” Bartrand breathed.

“NO BARTRAND DON'T!” Varric screamed against his will.

His brother reached up and tweaked one of Varric's pinkies. The dwarf jerked about and raged against the bindings that held him, shouting a slew of colorful curses, but to no avail. Varric was secured against the tree, unable to get free, and unable to save himself.

“This is where the most of you lies,” Bartrand whispered.

“I'M YOUR BROTHER DAMN IT BARTRAND! DON'T DO THIS TO ME!”

But there was a flash of silver from his brother the monster's pocket. Varric balled his hands into fists. Bartrand would not take his hands!

“Lay them flat, that's what she wants,” Bartrand said.

“NO! YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO NOW!”

Because _now_ was the breaking point. Not when Garm and Harris and everyone else died, not when Bartrand severed the limbs of those who had trusted them to make his insane altar, not even when Bartrand cut into his little brother over, and over, and _over_. This was where Varric drew his final line. (In reality they were just desperate words but some part of him sincerely wished that it would work.)

“Do as we say,” Bartrand demanded.

The younger dwarf pursed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. He would not give Bartrand this victory. Since he refused to open his hands Bartrand got more than agitated. He slammed his meaty fist into Varric's gut, making the dwarf hack and lean forward. Out of reflex his hands opened. It wasn't until Bartrand raised his hand that Varric realized the mistake that he had made.

There was a flash of silver. There was the _thunk_ as the knife went throught both his palms and into the bark. His scream startled the crows that had been eying the altar and the body parts. Varric writhed in place, trying to jerk his skewered palms free from under the knife. Bartrand grinned widely, eyes glinting as the silver was stained red.

“This is it. This is _perfect_ ,” Bartrand whispered.

“YOU BATSHIT INSANE SON OF A FUCKING NUG!” Varric sobbed, his body losing all its fight as he sagged against the tree. “What did I even _do_ to you?”

“Shh, shh,” Bartrand cooed.

Bartrand's hand brushed Varric's face, making the younger brother scream in terror and jerk about. But he couldn't escape Bartrand's touch, just like he couldn't escape the cuts, just like would never escape this unending hell.

“It'll get better soon,” his brother promised.

All Varric could do was cry.

 

*

 

People liked to think that the crazy people just snapped one day. That there were no warning signs, no little clues, no big clues either, but Varric had discovered that was untrue. People liked to think that the crazy ones were always the quiet ones. Never revealing their plan, never whispering or speaking out to their psychosis, but Varric had discovered that was untrue too. There were signs. Bartrand wasn't the quiet type. The truth to it all? They had all just ignored it.

It was easier to pretend he's just being weird from the time underground than from the idol. It was easier to sweep his mutterings and sometimes screaming bouts under the rug. _Oh that's just Bartrand, he just wants attention._ _Bartrand is just being an ass, can't have fun with him around. It's kinda sad, ain't it? How far he goes to get noticed. Maker._ Except none of the above had been as trivial as they wanted to believe. It all had been cries for something more than attention, and none of them could deign to look deeper at the man. Not until it was too late.

Varric liked to think he was the more cunning of the two brothers, and most of the time he would be right. But the night they breached the surface Varric realized that he was not the only Tethras with a penchant for planning. (Though, personally, he believed he would never stoop as low as Bartrand did.)

They should have been alarmed when Bartrand offered to help with dinner, but none were. Maybe they were all so desperate to see Bartrand acting normal that him doing something so canonically uncharacteristic was a step up from screaming about singing or whispering about how _She was so beautiful._ Varric had been so happy to see Bartrand being a person that he didn't even think to question _why_ Bartrand suddenly returned to them. He should have looked at his behavior before, he should have looked at the things Bartrand had been hoarding, all the little alchemical ingredients that Bodahn and Sandal had that kept going missing. They were all so quick to assume that Sandal lost some of his own materials that they never stopped to think that someone was taking it. They should have.

Hindsight was 20/20, or so it was said.

No one ever said it was only 20/20 for those who lived long enough to have that hindsight.

Most of them didn't.

The poison Bartrand had made from sparing bits of Sandal's enchantment supplies, venom from the spiders they killed, and dried deep mushrooms, took out the bulk of them. It wasn't quick and it wasn't pretty. Harris started to complain of the stomach ache first, then he started getting blotchy, and by the time he was vomiting blood Garm had the stomach ache. Then it spread like wildfire through them. Varric, Bodahn, and Sandal were spared, but that was because they never ate. Varric had been too preoccupied with thoughts of home, The Hanged Man, his big suite, all the money they were going to make... Sandal ran off into the woods, Bodahn had to follow. Varric wished he had followed. Instead he felt it as Bartrand cut the back of his neck with a knife. He knew poison as it coursed through him. But he didn't get to be one of the lucky ones. All the poison did was make him sleep.

Which meant, of course, that he later had to wake.


	4. Four

Varric was too tired to open his eyes. The most he could do was twitch his fingers. The knife was still there, keeping his palms pinned and raw. It hurt to move them but he forced at least a finger twitch now and then to remind himself he still had hands. _He still had hands._

“I need to go now,” Bartrand explained.

Varric didn't speak. He made sure his lips were pressed into a thin, silent, line. He would not speak to his brother again. He had no brother.

Brothers didn't do this. Brothers called you a jerk and smacked you for breaking a plate. Brothers helped you when you fell down and skinned your knee so bad that you were afraid your whole, tiny, pudgy leg would fall off. Brothers fought with you over finances and who mom loves the most. Brothers never did this.

“She will watch and protect you. You've been so good to her.”

Varric didn't want her to. He wanted her to be swallowed by the earth, dragged back to the Deep Roads kicking and screaming, laid out prone on her altar, and left to rot in a room the sun had never once shone upon.

Or maybe he wanted that for himself.

Bartrand lingered in front of Varric. He wanted some sort of praise, something that his brother could say to make him think he was still a good older brother. He had asked about it a few times and was upset when Varric said no. Now his little brother couldn't say a thing, couldn't look at him, hardly moved from his prison. Bartrand made a soft noise and pushed Varric's hair from his face.

“You have a beard,” Bartrand tried.

Varric knew he was scruffier than he liked, that his face was covered in more than a shadow, but it hardly mattered. He doubted being clean-shaven or bearded really mattered anymore. The idol never told Bartrand to shave his brother.

“Ok,” his brother sighed. “I'll be back soon.”

_Maker, Andraste, Stone, Paragons, even Dalish God: please don't ever let him return._

Maybe this time one of them would listen.

 

*

 

Time got funny when you didn't watch it. Hours felt like days, days felt like minutes, etc. Varric found that the more he kept his eyes shut the more he could believe he was in a faraway place. The Hanged Man, maybe, or even someplace else. Someplace new. Someplace that didn't buzz of flies or smell like rotting meat.

It was a place without Bartrand. It was warm and it was comforting. Varric's hands and arms didn't hurt the way they did now. In fact, he was certain he was laying down and sleeping. Yeah, _sleeping_. Sleeping on a bed with pillows, blankets, and a plush mattress that didn't have a single lump or a jutting piece of sharp bark that kept rubbing that spot raw under his right shoulder blade. The bed also did not smell like rotting meat.

Sleep was something Varric had time for in abundance. The more he slept the more he convinced himself that he wouldn't wake, he wouldn't be here, and that nothing had ever happened. He could pretend they never went to the Deep Roads, that he never found a lyrium idol the color of fresh meat with the glow of a thousand rubies. He could convince himself he never had heard the names Harris, Garm, Sandal, or Bodahn. They were just letters in the forms of words he was unfamiliar with. It was easy to do, especially when being awake was so painful.

His concentration his fantasy was broken when the sound of heavy panting drew his attention. Varric wanted to ignore it but something in his mind scream _what if it's a wolf?_

“And what if it is...?” He croaked to himself.

Mercy. Maybe it would be what he had been praying for.

The panting grew closer. Varric kept his eyes shut, it was easier that way. He had written many a story in which people died. Death was something that happened regardless if one was a villain, hero, or that innocent bystander in the background. Most of the time he didn't have a problem writing the death of a character, even those he liked. It was necessary.

He would hate to write his own death, he realized numbly. He had never even considered it. Had that been what Bartrand meant when he asked about the story?

Something slimy and thick slid up Varric's cheek. He groaned as it caught on his scruffy beard. In the plan he was making in his mind he decided he didn't want to die with a beard. Too bad a wolf would not be so sympathetic as to give him a minute to shave first.

“M'good meat,” the storyteller said as he tried to entice his death.

There was a high-pitched whining sound that Varric wasn't sure a wolf could make. Another lick came to the side of his face. It was too quick to be a taste-test. Against his will he allowed his eyes to open.

After keeping them closed for so long they took their time adjusting. The world was a vast array of blurred, colorful shapes. The dwarf's head pounded as he tried to focus on any one thing. He could easily discern that all the green and brown around him was the foliage of the woods, the red and sickly glow was the lyrium idol upon her meaty throne, but directly in front of him was a mass of light brown fur with patterns that didn't belong to a wolf. It barked at him.

“A...mabari...?” Varric squinted.

One of those Ferelden hounds stood in front of him. Varric had seen them wandering around Kirkwall with the refugees. The Fereldens loved their mabari quite a lot, some loved them more than showers as the merchant prince had noticed.

“Where's your master?”

Mabari didn't run alone. They always had a pack. Being stuck so close to one forced Varric to notice that the dog was as tall as he was. He never really got close to the refugees' dogs.

The mabari's eyes shimmered and it looked behind it. Either they were as smart as the tales boasted or there was something interesting back there.

“You should go back to him.”

A short brown ear twitched and the mabari looked back at Varric. It made the whining noise from before. It confused Varric. Why was the mabari hesitating like that?

As he was about to send it off it dawned on Varric what was wrong with this picture. His vision sharpened as he jerked forward. The burn of the knife in his palms wasn't enough to dull the newfound energy that surged in him.

“Your master! Get your master!” Varric shouted. “Please! Please bring him here dog! I'll buy you an entire _cow_! Fuck, I'll buy you ten cows and all the lady dogs you could want! Or boy dogs I don't care!”

The mabari barked in agreement. It couldn't shake but it could jump about before twisting around and bounding into the trees.

“QUICKLY FOR THE LOVE OF ANDRASTE!”

He just put his fate into the hands of a dog. How the mighty fall.


	5. Five

The worst part about being awake was being aware of how slowly time passed. It blinked by when Varric's eyes were closed but it meandered by like a particularly sluggish snail now that he was waiting on every second. The anxious dwarf brushed his feet in the dirt beneath him, angering the cut to his foot but he couldn't sit still. If he sat still he could fall asleep.

Or he might wake. It was hard to tell how real this was. Maker, if this was a dream he hoped he would never wake. Even just this tiny ray of hope was enough to make him believe he was alive again. Maybe he would wake up dead, gone to the stone, and then everything would be alright? Fuck that was a grim thought.

“What's going on Locke?” Came a Ferelden's voice.

Locke, the mabari, was barking up a storm. Varric could see the shrubbery around the camp shaking as the dog run back and forth between it all.

“HELP!” Varric screeched with all his might.

Locke barked to emphasize Varric's point. Into the clearing ran a tall man who looked more Rivaini than Ferelden but Varric was _not_ going to even pretend that mattered. All that mattered was that he was _real_ and that he could save him.

The Ferelden ran into the clearing before stopping short, eyes on the idol. He had silver-white eyes that went wide, flickering with the red light from the demonic thing. Then the smell hit him. (Funny thing about smell, one forgot it was there if they were in it long enough. Varric hadn't smelled the decay after a day of being in it.) The Ferelden made a retching noise and backed up.

“NO PLEASE HELP!” Varric screamed.

The Ferelden could have a heart attack and vomit all over the place later! The Ferelden turned sharply to see Varric. The dwarf felt his heart ram against his ribs, as if it could jettison itself out of his chest and demand the Ferelden help him. His dog certainly thought he was worthy! That meant something to Fereldens, right?

The man nearly tripped over his feet as he raced across the small clearing to get over to Varric. The dwarf didn't even realize it but he was repeatedly whispering to himself _please help, please help_ even as the Ferelden got up to him. His whole body shook from too many emotions to name and Varric felt his eyes getting hot.

“Please help, please _help_.”

“It's ok, I'm here.”

Silver-white eyes that looked like the ones Varric saw on the Qunari scanned Varric a few times. The dwarf tried to shut his mouth but _a person who wasn't Bartrand was here._

“Shit what happened to you?”

“Please help me before he comes back,” Varric spilled out instead.

A shiver moved through the Ferelden. He was a tall and stocky type, with a scruff of black that stretched across his jaw. He turned around to the mabari.

“Locke keep watch!”

Locke barked and started rounding the camp with his nose to the ground.

“I owe you ten cows,” Varric remembered.

“What?”

“Your dog. I owe your dog ten cows.”

“He doesn't need ten cows.”

Locke barked in protest. Apparently he was not in agreement with his master.

“Hold still,” the Ferelden said.

“What else am I going to doO _OOOW_!” Varric screamed as the knife was ripped from his palms. “ _Fuck_!” He cried.

The Ferelden made a face as he looked at the knife. Varric couldn't look at it. The knife was tossed aside in favor of a hunting blade the Ferelden had at his hip. The bindings on his hands came loose and Varric fell forward, his body braced against the Ferelden's bigger and warmer one.

“My arms hurt like hell,” the dwarf mumbled.

“Yeah well if they've been stuck up like that for a while I'd bet it.”

The Ferelden stooped down to get to Varric's feet and the dwarf ended up leaning over his shoulder, his arms weakly draped over his back. His ankles came free and Varric both sighed and sobbed.

“It'll...it'll be ok. My sister is good at healing,” the Ferelden tried.

“I just want to go home.”

“I'd bet anyone would.”

The Ferelden shifted so his back was to Varric. The dwarf got the hint and leaned into the offered back, throwing his arms over the Ferelden's shoulders.

“I'm Cyrus, by the way. Cyrus Hawke.”

“Varric Tethras,” the dwarf answered as Cyrus got his arms behind his short legs, pulling him up and onto his back properly.

“Locke c'mon!” Snapped Cyrus.

The mabari rushed back to his master's side and they began trotting into the woods, away from Her, away from the mess, away from the smell of putrid flesh and rotting meat and the buzz of all those flies. As Varric leaned his forehead against the back of Cyrus's head he felt a smile tug his lips and he chuckled a little. Cyrus' head moved as Varric laughed in his hair.

“What's so funny?”

“I found the hero.”

 

*  
  


Maybe a minute into their escape there was a wailing howl from the clearing that was so painful it could have made the trees shuck all their leaves in fear. Varric held his breath and curled up closer to Cyrus.

“What was that?” Cyrus had to ask.

“Bartrand,” Varric whispered.

“VARRIC!” Roared Bartrand.

“Fuck what did you do to piss off this guy?!” Cyrus shouted as he slid down a hill, keeping his footing somehow and bursting into a gloriously fast sprint.

Varric was too busy trying to hold onto the Ferelden for dear life to answer. Locke raised his head and began snarling, showing off those big mabari teeth that were made for war. He barked at their trail but the dwarf knew better. His brother would not stop until Varric was returned to him and Cyrus and Locke were dead. He would not fail Her.

“Shit!”

Cyrus cursed as he hit the next hill wrong and he and Varric went into a tumble. The dwarf lost his grip just as the Ferelden lost his and the two rolled away. Bursting out of the woods came the insane dwarf. Varric rolled onto his side and felt his stomach sink to his toes.

In the beginning to make the shrine Bartrand had used a mix of shears, daggers, swords, and even a pickaxe they had used for mining. Now he had a pickaxe in one hand and one of his daggers in the other.

“YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO LEAVE!” Roared the insane dwarf.

Varric tried crawling backwards but his right foot hurt too much. Cyrus was getting uneasily to his feet, maybe he had hit his head. Bartrand was practically on top of him.

A blur of brown and teeth launched itself at Bartrand from the side. Locke clamped his jaws over Bartrand's thick neck. The dwarf went down with the force of the war dog and a moment later there was a hideous tearing sound accompanied by a spray of crimson.

There was a wet gurgle.

Then Locke was sitting beside Varric.

The storyteller blinked.

 _The hero was the dog._ He realized quietly. But he couldn't look at Locke. He watched Bartrand's foot twitch. Cyrus got in front of the dwarf and lightly touched his shoulder. It was a prompt to move. Varric couldn't.

“...I need to say good bye,” he whispered.

Cyrus whistled and Locke moved, going to his master's side. Varric twitched and kept looking at the dwarf's arm or foot. His face and neck were a mess. Mabari didn't mess around.

After a few minutes that felt like hours Cyrus crept forward. Varric tilted his head in the man's direction as he knelt down beside him.

“Who was he?”

“...He was my brother,” Varric whispered, his hand unconsciously held Bartrand's. “He was my older brother.”

The ball in Cyrus' neck bobbed. Varric hesitated a little.

“...Back at the camp there's a crossbow and a coat. They're mine.”

“We'll go get them.”

The Ferelden and his dog started back up the hill to the camp. Varric continued to hold Bartrand's hand.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

Maybe the apology could help one of them.


End file.
